Long Live, My Brother!
by malheureux en amour
Summary: Germany discovers Prussia's aristocratic side through escapades with Merkel, the Mona Lisa, and Bach - and though he's not exactly sure how to react to it, he eventually learns how to appreciate it. Features brotherly love and humour. Germancest if you squint/are into that kind of stuff. Three parts. Re-upload. COMPLETE. [If you saw the crap edit of chapter 3, I DEEPLY APOLOGISE.]
1. Chapter 1: The Aristocrat

**Author's note **This is a re-upload from my other account. The previous author's note ran thus:

I've emerged from my hiatus, and now I have a new fanfic! And it's... actually... _comedy. Sweet lord. _It's not often that I write comedy. Anyway, this was written as a character study more than anything else. I've always wondered why Prussia was depicted by Himaruya as rude, because prior to discovering Hetalia, I've always thought that the Kingdom of Prussia was this austere German kingdom (which it totally was, by the way). I'm having a lot of fun with it so far.

Also: if you're wondering about why I haven't updated 'Verloren', it's because it's rather complicated in terms of plot, and since I'm busy, I can't update that other one now. However, I have this to offer, so I hope you enjoy. :)

Translations at the bottom.

***edit **Haha, I royally effed up last time and confused 'Chancellor' with 'Prime Minister' (maybe because I was doing History homework simultaneously oops). Fixed.

**Disclaimer **Hetalia does not belong to me.

* * *

**Long Live, My Brother!**

**CHAPTER ONE****  
****The Aristocrat**

It always annoyed Germany how perfectly and sickeningly suave his brother could be in official meetings.

"Oh, Frau Merkel," his brother was saying with a flair that almost sounded flirtatious, "I've _always_ been such an avid admirer of your strong will and subtle yet effective stringency. Despite the taxing responsibilities you need to attend to, none of the pressure shows in your face. However do you manage? I should like to emulate your estimable disposition."

The Chancellor flustered in a way that reminded one of a young college girl who was being courted by a potential lover. Her red cheeks—on a, ehrm, more youthful face, of course—would have made any man weak in the knees, but all Germany could feel in his knees was an urge to kick his brother to the ground. The fact that the ex-nation could congenially make conversation with Merkel—Merkel, mind you, the dragon of Europe, the fiery power-check to Putin's cold policy in Europe—and put up a charming façade that wooed the Chancellor into a giggling, flustered mess,_really _bothered Germany, when in fact his brother pissed off half the nations in any given world conference and, at best, disgusted the rest.

It was nothing short of repulsive. Absolutely unacceptable.

Silently seething, Germany (who was a few seats away from the chattering, Chancellor-nation pair) pretended not to hear his brother mention the word _'Schwarm'_ in front of who was perhaps the most important figure in Germany at the moment. Instead, he looked down at his plate, aimlessly picking apart his potatoes with his fork and mashing them into the sauce, which was turning sickly-sweet and jaundice yellow.

_Lalalalala_, I can't hear you, he voiced mentally, _lalalalala_, and before he could realise it he was already slamming his fork against the ceramic. _Click clack click_ as metal banged against china, coupled with the squelching sounds of the potatoes as they got mashed and puréed into the sauce.

The officials beside him—all rather senior men with greying to completely white hair, wrinkly, faces, and sagging skin—were staring, appalled. The one immediately beside Germany, who arguably had the sourest face out of all of them, rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

Germany stopped playing with his food.

"And so, Chancellor, to celebrate this occasion of our newly-formed friendship, I propose a toast to everyone on this table!" Prussia announced. Germany snapped his head up, a look of disbelief etched over his face. He looked straight at his brother.

_What are you doing?!_ Germany silently demanded through darting eyes and gritted teeth. _What the hell are you doing?_

To which Prussia responded with a calm shrug that clearly said: _Go with the flow, bro._

Prussia winked at him.

Reluctantly—though his hands were shaking with embarrassment and annoyance—Germany grasped his wine goblet and raised it. "_Ein _toast!" One of the younger officials—an attractive man with dark hair, green eyes, a lean but muscly build, a sharp business suit, and tanned skin—from Bayern exclaimed. Everyone else followed suit and clinked glasses with him.

"_Prost!_"

Germany couldn't remember when such an informal gesture ever occurred during an official dinner in the history of Germany. Even the Nazis were proper during their dinners, and the bastards almost always made sure that they were smashed half to hell after it. But at least they knew how to suppress their lust for drink during the dinner.

_Not... like this..._ Germany thought, cringing.

But since Prussia never got invited to Nazi celebrations and therefore had minimal influence on bastards like Göbbels and Hitler and Göring and whatnot, then maybe his brother was the variable which made officials go... wild. He turned them into party animals.

It seemed as if he saw them as party balloons which he could twist and bend into fun things, and not the rigid, boring things they usually were. He added pizzazz to them. Colour and vitality.

But just like party balloons, they were easily popped. One wrong twist, one wrong turn, or too much of it—could explode into a disaster. And for this reason, Germany was almost completely sick to his stomach with anxiety.

_Please don't mess up please don't mess up please don't mess up._

However, Germany had a weird feeling that maybe his brother wasn't going to mess up. It was impossible to ignore his brother's flawless, unmarred High German and the Chancellor's laughs of amusement and everyone else seems to like what he was doing and _oh mein Gott _how is he even acting like this, how very... very... proper. How very... very...

...Prussia.

The thought seemed almost foreign to Germany. It jarred in his head but at the same time it made sense.

And it bothered him.

His brother stole a glance at him from across the table, and smirked a smirk that Germany was certain could instantly woo women—and possibly even men—into bed.

Germany flustered a deep red almost as deep as his wine and looked away.

"I would like to express my deep gratitude for having been invited to this dinner," Prussia said, his voice genuine to Germany's ears. Germany perked up. Now, his brother was making sense. "Thank you so much for allowing me to dine amongst such admirable company. Thank you, Frau Merkel, for being the benefactor of this delightful dinner. Thank you to all who prepared this dinner for us, as it was quite a culinary treat. Thank you, of course, to all of you who found time to attend. And thank you, most of all—_Dankeschön_, in fact—to my brother, Germany, for inviting me here—(_Invited you here, _Germany scoffed to himself, _you were practically begging me on your knees to let you in here)—_and whose health and glory we are all celebrating today, as always in these events."

Everyone murmured their assent and applauded. Merkel was teary-eyed. Even the sour-faced old man beside Germany was smiling. The young official from Bayern gave a hoot of appreciation.

"Long live Germany!" The young official said.

Prussia grinned warmly at his brother. Germany found himself hesitantly grinning back.

And then all of a sudden, he remembered that once upon a time, a little less than a couple of centuries or so ago, his brother was once the formidable and magnificent Kingdom of Prussia. And with that mighty title came not just the cunning and courage needed to be a major world power, but also an acute awareness of the niceties that such a title so entailed, from table manners, to casually dropping fancy terms _en français,_ to sugary compliments that made one's teeth rot, to knowing how to look powerful but attractive: all of which culminated to a set of enviable PR skills which Germany had almost forgotten his brother actually possessed and applied at some point or another.

In short, his brother knows how to be a prissy aristocrat.

Then again, he was the goddamn Kingdom of Prussia, for goodness' sake. _Of course_ he knew how to be a prissy aristocrat. That was part of the job description of being a major world power from the 1800's, alongside 'kickass soldier' and 'smartass'. He knew how to be so prissy, even _Austria _would be shamed.

Germany was almost ready to accept his brother's behaviour as some form of praiseworthy thing he needed to learn how to appreciate. He was almost ready to transform his half smile to a wider smile, when he had the misfortune to see Merkel kiss his brother on the cheek.

And not less than three seconds later Germany, _Bundesrepublik Deutschland_, the major economic and political power of the European continent, fourth-largest economy in the world, and home to several influential scientists, inventors, musicians, and philosophers, had unabashedly vomited mashed potatoes on his plate.

* * *

Translations:

_Schwarm – _slang-wise, it's meant to mean 'sweetheart', 'idol', or 'heartthrob'.

_Ein toast! _– a toast!

_Prost – _German equivalent of 'cheers' or 'bottoms up'.

_oh mein Gott – _oh my God.

_Dankeschön – _thank you very much.

_en français_ – in French.

_Bundesrepublik Deutschland_ – the official name of Germany in German, which is translated as the Federal Republic of Germany in English.


	2. Chapter 2: The Painter

**Author's note** Chapter 2! Featuring other nations, the French language, Mona Lisa, and oodles of Austrian contempt. It's longer than the first chapter, surprisingly. Hope you enjoy!

P.S. if you think you can notice a Hannibal influence, you're right. :)

**Disclaimer** Hetalia does not belong to me.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO****  
****The Painter**

"I must say," Austria said with relish as he took a bite off a chocolate-filled croissant, "your pastries do get better every year, France."

"Thank you so much," France grinned, and Germany heard the speciousness in France's voice. He knew the latter was faking flattery. If France had been told that once, he'd been told a thousand times over by Austria, every single year. He'd always thought the Austrian sounded a little bit more condescending each time he said it to France; after all, croissants originated from Austria, and not only was it natural for the glasses-donning nation to scrutinise pastries that had come from his own country, he was clearly annoyed that croissants were now more attached to French culture than Austrian culture.

This year was no exception. Germany could hear the contempt practically _dripping_ from the Austrian's lips like spoiled custard, and this time there was probably an extra sprinkling of jealousy, too—earlier, Hungary had been flirting madly with France, complimenting him about the different pastries he had prepared. Germany could see why Austria would act so testily. On the other hand, France, ever the charmer, did his best to act as the amiable host who tolerated even the most offending snide remarks against him.

Not that anyone had anything negative to say. The furthest anyone got was Austria, and beyond that nothing more radical was done.

To Germany, this was largely helped by and was possible because of the fact that Prussia wasn't saying anything. For some reason, Prussia took the whole dinner with a very bored and languid approach. He would absent-mindedly twirl his fork around a cheesecake or look out the windows with a faraway expression. The other nations thought him rather ignorant for not participating, and this may have been a bad thing (enough to warrant a concerned question from Belgium, asking if he felt ill, to which Prussia vaguely shrugged), but to Germany, it was perfect. For once, his brother shut himself up, and for once, Germany could enjoy the company of the other nations in peace.

He wasn't completely sure why it was that Prussia refused to comment (when, in fact, he could easily anger them all in a world conference, or—as had happened a couple of weeks ago—impress high-ranking politicians such as the Chancellor herself with his oh-so magnificent charm), and that probably meant that there was something wrong with his brother, but since it was good enough to silence the usually vocal ex-nation, then it was good enough for Germany.

For instance, Austria would occasionally look at Prussia's direction and throw a distasteful look at him, but through some miraculous divine intervention, Prussia was capable of completely dismissing the Austrian's hostile glances, without so much as a single glance back at the other nation.

It was heaven for Germany. Usually his older brother would retaliate through sticking his tongue out at the Austrian or pranking him, but Austria's distasteful glances were only met with composed dismissal.

_Perfect._

* * *

"It really is delicious," Germany said as he took a bite out of a lemon tart, his eyes sparkling. "Don't you think so, brother?"

Prussia gave a meek sound of assent and nodded.

"When it comes to pastry, hardly anyone surpasses French quality," Hungary commented, and the other nations agreed. Austria shot a withering look at the Hungarian, who ignored him coolly.

Following this awkward, synthetic exchange of pleasantries was always a comment by some nation about the choice of flower arrangement that year, except for that one time when there wasn't a flower arrangement at all, in mourning for some dead French Prime Minister. (The whole event had turned into some sappy eulogy.) Due to the fact that the topic of flower arrangement was something which attracted only a select few individuals, the nations often found themselves speaking in groups, not as a whole.

"Prussia, you haven't touched your food," Belgium said, concerned again. "Are you alright? Is there something wrong with it?"

Prussia smiled weakly at her. He understood that Belgium would have been a bit worried, as she helped out in baking some of the trifles and cake. "There's no need to worry, Belgium. The pastry is excellent, but I'm full, as I've already eaten at home"—_lie_, Germany communicated to his brother through a single flick of his eyes, _you're starving; look at your hands, they're shaking_—"and there really isn't any space in my stomach right now. Thanks for asking, anyway."

Belgium was unconvinced, but accepted Prussia's statement anyway. "If you insist," she said, settling into her seat uncomfortably.

As expected, the other nations fell into their own little islands of conversation. France always entertained those who commented on flower arrangements (even though he was probably sick to death of discussing the 'hidden meanings' of flowers); the Nordics always kept to themselves, whispering softly in their strange mutually intelligible languages; and all the other countries would engage in some other vapid conversations which Germany barely cared about. He did, however, decide to listen whenever some of the conversations got interesting.

This time, he regretted his decision.

Instead of the usual comment about the flower arrangement that year (which was a tasteful, if not bland and clichéd, arrangement of roses, baby's-breaths, and daisies, with sprigs of some boring thin-leafed plant), France immediately introduced a painting, which was usually the conversation starter for when the silence built up again near the end. But for some reason, the painting seemed to be the centrepiece of the dinner this year.

"I'd like you all to take a look at this painting, here," France said as he took out a framed painting from a silk pouch. It measured approximately 30 cm by 50 cm, and everyone was positively intrigued. Even Prussia looked up and watched as France unveiled the painting.

France lovingly swept some dust away at the corners of the painting's frame, and then turned it round for everyone to see. There was a collective gushing sound which all the nations made as they realised what it was: a stunning oil painting copy of the Mona Lisa.

"I made it myself," France said, beaming proudly. The other nations expressed their approval by nodding their heads, and even Germany found himself softly clapping with the other nations.

"It's wonderful," England gushed, in a rare moment of appreciation for the Frenchman. "_Très bien, mon ami_. It's one of the best pieces I've seen from you thus far."

"_Merci beaucoup_, Arthur," France replied, flattered, especially as the compliment had come from England. "I worked for more than three months on this piece, and it was no easy feat, but thankfully"—he eyed Austria—"others were always willing to provide constructive criticism, without which I would not have been able to paint this with a degree of professionalism."

"I agree completely," Austria added with a cloying tone of admiration. He pretended to wipe away tears of joy from his cheeks with a silken kerchief. "You have captured the very essence of da Vinci, my friend. I am proud to have aided you in the time you have painted this masterpiece. Your composition is flawless, and your choice of colour has always been very astute. It is a commendable piece, indeed."

Involuntarily Germany glanced at his brother to see if Prussia had a reaction, but Prussia remained still and unresponsive the entire time. He was looking intently at the painting, but if he had any thoughts about the matter, then his face declined to reveal any emotion.

_Just as well_, Germany thought, but there really was something in Prussia's eyes—a strange, glazed-over look—that worried him.

Something was up.

France, meanwhile, had a battle against genuine tears that were threatening to squeeze out of his tear ducts upon hearing the compliments, and so Austria continued his string of flattery. "You have truly shown excellent craftsmanship here, France. I must say even the great da Vinci would be ashamed to look at your painting. You have even exhibited the finer details of creating some... how do you say it..."

Everyone stared at Austria, waiting for him to complete his sentence. Germany immediately felt intense embarrassment for the Austrian.

"... uh... um... it's at the tip of my tongue... that word you use to create those... fine, crack... things... uh..."

Austria's cheeks quickly began to redden. He could not find the word, he could not—

"_Craquelure._"

Dead silence.

All heads turned towards the far end of the table, past France, past Italy, past Germany, and past Belgium to stare at Prussia, who had so sleekly uttered the word.

_Oh, Gott_, Germany thought. He was prepared to hurl a glass at his brother. _If he gets this wrong, I swear, I'll..._

Austria blinked several times. He took his glasses off his face with shaky hands, wiped them with another frilly, silky-looking fabric which he produced from a coat pocket, and, upon placing them back where they had been perched upon his nose, raised an eyebrow at Prussia.

"Come again?"

"Craquelure," Prussia repeated, his voice devoid of any emotion.

The word seemed to arouse a strange sort of irrational admiration and fear amongst most of the other nations. Who would expect Prussia, the warmonger, disrupter of world conferences, and ex-nation, to know what the hell _craquelure _was? Nobody expected the bored, stupid-looking one to suddenly understand anything about art.

Switzerland was so shocked that he was almost ready to cover Liechtenstein's ears should Prussia say anything lewd. The Nordics all had confused looks plastered on their faces as they struggled to visualise what the word _craquelure_ looked like. The Netherlands had a bemused expression on his face, almost disgruntled, and his sister, who was sitting next to Prussia, was simply staring at him with a dazed expression. Spain and both Italies were blank. England wasn't sure what to feel, so his face flickered somewhere in between confusion and shock. Hungary was smiling.

And Germany felt sick.

Austria tilted his head, a dangerous light glinting off his glasses as he stared at Prussia with narrowed eyes. Prussia stared back, unfazed.

"And_ what_, my good friend," Austria drawled into practically the next continent, "does that word _mean_?"

Germany was biting so hard into his lip that blood began to run down.

Prussia smiled—congenially again, in that way of his—a smile so saccharine and fake that it inspired the butterflies in Germany's stomach to lurch forward and make him feel like vomiting again.

_Not here_, Germany pleaded with his brother through another flick of his eyes. _Not after that embarrassing stunt with Merkel._

"I'm glad you asked," Prussia responded, ignoring Germany. "The word _craquelure_ comes from _craqueler_ in French, which means 'to crack'"—he cast a sidelong look at France, who nodded in approval—"which, as an artistic technique, is known as _craquelé._ In Italian, the word is _cretattura_. More colloquially in English it is simply known as 'crackle'. As you can tell, the technique refers to the dense cracking pattern on paintings, as can be observed in Vermeer's _The Girl With a Pearl Earring_ or, as Monsieur France has emulated, in Leonardo Da Vinci's _Mona Lisa_. There are many types of craquelure, all of which are designated a purported country of origin, even though a Flemish type of craquelure, for example, may be observed in a painting from Russia."

More silence. No-one dared to do anything except for France and Belgium, who jointly swooned at the Prussian's impromptu art lesson.

Germany hardly breathed: Austria was staring daggers into Prussia. If looks could kill, Prussia would have been incinerated on the spot.

But he carried on. "Monsieur France, in our case, has quite excellently exhibited English-style craquelure in his copy of the Mona Lisa," Prussia continued, "although da Vinci used Italian-style craquelure in the original. This technique is often what tells you whether or not a painting is a reproduction of another. Nevertheless, Monsieur France has evidently painted this with so much skill that he deserves another round of applause."

As if turned on by a switch, the other countries applauded again (except for Austria), and most of them were not sure whether they were applauding France for his painting, or Prussia for his artsy speech.

"That's... very... informative," England remarked, half-impressed and half-frightened, as the applause died down. "Very, very good, er, Prussia."

"Very surprising, I'd say, coming from you," Hungary smirked. "Who knew this airhead knew anything about art? Nobody! Half the time he couldn't even tell the difference between his ass and his head!"

Everyone laughed—again, everyone except Austria, who was still silently glaring at Prussia through murderous eyes reduced to slits—and Prussia flashed his weak, sheepish smile again, which all of the females (and even some of the males) in the room suddenly found absolutely adorable.

Germany could sense the vomit-y sensation building up in his throat once more. Images of the now two-week-old encounter with Merkel replayed cruelly in his head as he looked on at all the attention his brother was suddenly getting. It was unearthly, and hellish, and godly at the same time.

"You seem to know an extraordinary amount of things about painting, Prussia," Austria said, hiding the disdain in his voice. "Did you ever take art classes?"

Prussia grinned.

"I was a world power during the 1800's, Austria. _Of course_ I took art lessons. And have you ever wondered why a certain shade of blue is called Prussian blue? It's because this chemist from Berlin accidentally discovered it whilst he was searching for a lucrative replacement to ultramarine, which we all know cost a fortune back in the day..."

_Back in the day, you stuck swords in people's chests when everyone else was sticking paintbrushes to canvasses_, Germany thought, snickering to himself.

Austria's contempt was clear.

Prussia the painter.

Who would've guessed.

Germany could suppress the vomit-y sensation this time.

* * *

Translations:

_Très bien, mon ami_. _– _Very good, my friend.

_Merci beaucoup. – _Thank you very much.

_Oh, Gott_ _– _Oh, God.


	3. Chapter 3: The Cellist

**Author's note **IMPORTANT: I EFFED SOME MAJOR SCHEISSE UP (OR MAYBE DID IT), IDK, BUT YEAH, THE COPY AND PASTING WASN'T AS SMOOTH AS I EXPECTED IT TO BE.AHHHH I FEEL SO EMBARRASSED. THIS IS NOW EDITED AND POLISHED, THANKFULLY. ACH.

ANYWAY-

Final chapter is up! Thanks to everyone who read, favourited and followed this story! I love you all so much. :) If I get some reviews I might actually post an epilogue, or something like that. In the meantime, why not check out my other fics _Verloren _[ongoing] and _Imaginary Warmth_ [complete]?

**Disclaimer **Hetalia does not belong to me.

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE  
The Cellist**

Germany woke up to the rich tones of a cello coming from downstairs.

Blinking rapidly in the darkness, he listened and tried to figure out what was playing. It was a tune he knew: he'd heard it countless of times, and though it wasn't a favourite piece of his, it was nostalgic in its familiarity. Judging from the passion with which the tune was being played, it seemed like it was a favourite piece of the mystery player.

_Mystery player,_ Germany thought, shaking the unnecessary appellation from his head. _That's no mystery player._

He stood up, leaving his blanket on the bed, and checked the time on a digital clock next to him.

4:30 in the morning.

His brother was playing Bach at 4:30 in the morning.

Germany had seen the impossible become possible the past month. First, it was that dinner with Merkel, in which his brother won the heart of the usually fiery and ill-tempered Chancellor (much to Germany's misfortune). Merkel had gushed over his 'attractive and charming older brother' a full week after. Second, it was that little incident at France's party, in which Prussia astounded all the nations present for knowing some obscure art term. Germany knew that Austria was still seething about it; he had called Germany several times ever since, inquiring about Prussia's doings.

_And now, this._

Very quietly, Germany made his way out of his bedroom to check on just what was happening. The hallway was dark, but Germany could make out that the lights downstairs, likely from the living room, were turned on. They cast a golden light at the end shadowy hallway, right where the staircase began.

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, deciding how to approach his brother, and listened a little more to the music. For a moment he ruminated on whether his brother was playing the composition on an actual instrument or simply listening through some device. But he could hear the slight buzzing of strings and the telltale richness that came with hearing an instrument live and he knew right then and there his brother was playing the cello.

This wasn't the first time he heard his brother playing any instrument: He could vaguely remember him playing the harpsichord a long, long time ago amongst an orchestra, back when Germany was still a child and Prussia still had to tell him bedtime stories to sleep. Germany also remembered that Prussia would often play during parties. Not too long ago when Germany (or at least) was still ruled by kaisers (a short span of time, really), Prussia was always invited to graze at those ebony and ivory keys during dinners and other events.

Germany's memories of his brother's musical side were very fuzzy, however. He couldn't remember how well his brother played. He never heard him play solo before, either. He always heard him play it with some other person.

But this was, indeed, his first time hearing Prussia play the cello.

Germany's knees and hands were trembling in spite of himself, and he wasn't sure whether it was because of the effect of hearing his brother play with such unexpected dexterity, or because of the fact that if he took one wrong step, then he would make his presence known to his brother and it would all be over. Cold sweat ran down his forehead as he approached the staircase, his hand quivering and sweaty on the bannister.

_How to do this..._

He assessed the situation: His brother's back was completely turned to him, so he had no way of seeing Germany unless he actually turned round. Given his current engagement with the instrument, he also had no way of breaking his concentration, at least until the piece ended.

He wondered whether he should just go back to bed and pretend that he never heard his brother playing the cello. Pretend that he had not been thoroughly shocked for the third time of the week by his brother.

But he couldn't resist it.

He descended the staircase, stopped halfway through, and sat on the polished steps. It was still dark out, as he observed through the windows, and the neighbourhood was quiet save for some howling winds. It was going to rain that day.

He looked ahead at his brother, and watched as his shoulders moved with the music as the elder ran the bow over the strings of the cello. He was almost hunched over in his little personal performance. Germany could almost see the beads of sweat running down his brother's forehead. He could almost sense the even, steady breathing. Could almost hear the thumping heartbeats that drummed in sync with the rhythm of the music.

Oh, the music, that piece. It was really familiar, and somehow it sent Germany a few centuries back into a time he wasn't entirely sure he was a part of but that which he was certain his brother thrived in. It was slow but impassioned, gentle but powerful, logical but elegant. Its depth resonated throughout the whole house. It was the type of music that sounded smooth enough to lull anyone to sleep, but which had a lilting rhythm and distinct legato and marcato which made it fit for a romantic waltz. For some reason, Germany could feel the sun in his face and a chill breeze biting him all at the same time when he listened to it. It was a maelstrom of emotion and sensation; unpredictable and yet sure of itself. Proud.

Just like his brother.

Germany grinned. Listening to his brother play the cello during the few hours before a forecasted rainy Sunday morning was probably the highlight of the week.

Germany closed his eyes and swayed his head to the music. His arms began to move in flowing motions akin to that of a musical conductor's. He immersed himself in the pleasant, swinging rhythm of the piece. Images of people in period clothing flitted in his head. He wasn't sure whether it was his imagination or if it was his own memory of some far-flung era which his mind had already buried and tucked away, but he could so clearly see men and women waltzing in a ballroom and they looked so real he could swear they were in front of him and in one corner a silver-haired man was-

_Bzzzzt._

The piece ended abruptly. His brother stopped playing, and it seemed as if all the noise in the world had been blocked by a stopper. Germany's eyes fluttered open and he froze in his position, his arms still up in the air.

And then it came.

The rain.

Raindrops pelted down on the roof incessantly, almost as if they were singing applause from the heavens, and Germany found himself joining in.

Applause from the heavens.

Prussia whirled around quick as lightning. For a split-second shock registered into his face, but he quickly retained composure and smiled at his brother. "You're up rather early," he said, looking at Germany. He set the cello to one side and turned round to face his brother. "I hope it wasn't because of my little... ah... tryst, if you will, with this instrument."

"I'm not sure if tryst is the appropriate term in this instance, if at all," Germany replied, and he got the laugh he wanted from his older brother. He walked over to take a seat next to him. "I never thought you played the cello so well."

"I never thought you could sneak up on me so well," Prussia replied, then shrugged. "Guess we still surprise each other every now and often, huh."

"Oh, believe me when I say that you have surprised me more times this entire month than is humanly possible for anyone to be surprised at an ex-nation like you," Germany teased, and again Prussia laughed, louder this time.

"Surprised?" Prussia smirked―and again it was that sultry, ravishing grin that instantly lured lovers into bed. "Do expound on that line of thought."

"Three reasons," Germany said, raising three fingers up. "Merkel, craquelure, and now, what sounds like one of Bach's concertos."

"Actually, I'm playing one of his cello suites," Prussia corrected him. "You might be familiar with it."

"Yes, I think so," Germany nodded. It sounds familiar, certainly."

Prussia snickered. "Of course it sounds familiar. You used to like waltzing to this piece when you were a child."

Germany narrowed his eyes. A horrifying image of himself dressed in formal breeches and a frilly cravat flashed in his head. "I did? But how―"

Prussia leaned back into the couch and sighed contentedly. "I took you to balls, Germany."

Germany was silent and pensive as he mulled that information over. So the mental images of men and women waltzing weren't just part of his imagination after all...

"Any chance this piece was one of my favourites?"

Prussia shrugged. "Eh. I guess you liked it. But if I recall correctly, you preferred Mozart. Had much more staccato."

"Hm."

Silence followed, and both brothers listened to the rain falling. Prussia watched the droplets beating against the windowpanes with wistfulness in his eyes, and Germany stared at the cello. It was well-worn but had obviously been taken care of by its owner. The neck was pristine, its paint still matte black and unaffected; and though there were some odd nicks, scratches, and flecks of paint on the body, the varnish was mostly even. The instrument was still intact.

Germany coughed loudly to break the silence. "So... have you been using this since... the 1700's, or something?" He asked, gesturing to the instrument.

Prussia turned and laughed. "Oh Gott, West, no. That old thing was England's. He gave it to me a week ago, after that party with France. How old it actually is, I can't tell precisely, but it's two centuries old, tops, and a little over a century at the very least. Great strings, and the bow is still alive and kicking, so I'd say it's a great bargain, but they certainly make much better instruments nowadays. You see, it's actually difficult to tune this, seeing as―"

Germany raised an eyebrow and cut his brother off before the latter began to ramble. "Wait a second, England gave you this? Why?"

"Hm." Prussia put a finger under his lips, thinking. "Um. Don't know, really. He probably figured that maybe a seemingly converted asshat like me would appreciate getting an instrument that lasted longer than the kingdom of Prussia." He laughed sardonically.

Germany rolled his eyes. "Your sense of humour is terribly depressing."

"Let's not get started with yours," Prussia retorted. "You're not exactly an authority in humour, either."

"What can I say," Germany grinned. "I was taught by the best."

A sparkle came on in Prussia's eyes, and Germany could tell that his usual egotistical side was showing. "If by 'the best' do you mean me, West?"

"The one and only."

Prussia laughed, but Germany wanted an answer to something.

"Why didn't you finish playing the piece?"

Prussia's laughter faltered. He looked down.

"Oh, uh... because I don't remember how the rest of it goes."

"Oh?"

"I used to know the whole piece, but I've forgotten the rest of it... besides, I lost my sheet music a long, long time ago to a fire..."

There was some discomfort in Prussia's voice, and Germany knew not to pry any further, so he simply nodded.

Prussia sensed that Germany had fallen silent, so he spoke up again. "It's a long story," he waved him off. "I'd bore you to death. Anyway, what'cha planning to do today, West?"

Germany sighed in relief, infinitely glad of the change in subject. He had tensed up when he heard Prussia mention 'fire'.

He had a feeling he had something to do with that fire...

"Hey, West. Earth to Major West. Earth to Major West. Ground control reporting."

Germany was snapped out of his thoughts.

"Sorry," he said softly, "I lost concentration there. What were you saying again?"

"I was wondering whether you're going to be doing anything today?"

Germany thought about it for a moment. He didn't really have many plans that day. He considered Sunday a day-off.

Perfect time to bond with his brother.

"I don't actually know. Stay here at home with you, maybe, since it's raining outside."

"How exciting," Prussia commented.

Germany waved his arms defensively. "Well, do you have a better idea?"

"As America says it, 'duh, dude, of course I do'," Prussia said, copying America's voice and accent. Germany reeled back in disgust.

"Ugh, please don't impersonate America."

Prussia ignored him and tugged on Germany's shirt. "C'mon, West. Let's go watch a movie. Or maybe you could invite your boyfriend to come here"―Germany glared at him―"oh-kay, but if you don't like that, I suppose I could call a whole buncha other nations, too, you know. Get a hot chick like Vietnam or Belgium over. Have some booze. Crates of booze, even. What do you say?"

"Bad idea."

"When has inviting a hot chick over ever been a bad idea?"

Germany laughed, having been reminded of all the perks of being the sibling of such a feisty and spirited nation.

"You're hopeless," Germany said, shaking his head. "Vietnam doesn't even know you."

"Yeah, she does!" Prussia insisted.

"No, she doesn't."

It was true. Prussia was reminded of that one time he had to take his brother's place in a minor world conference. Vietnam didn't recognise him. Nor did she even bother trying to figure out who he was. Prussia was looking forward to talking to her, and he ended up eating dirt. He flustered.

"Fine. If you don't like my ideas, fine," Prussia said, crossing his arms. "Don't you want to go out or something?"

"No," Germany said slowly. "I... I want to stay home with you... you know, just... just the two of us. Teach me how to play the cello, or paint, or entertain a female Chancellor."

Prussia was dumbstruck for a moment. His features softened. For a moment Germany was afraid Prussia might start bawling on the spot, but all of a sudden Prussia laughed so hard that there were tears in his eyes.

"What? Did my austere little West _actually_ say that?"

Yes he did.

Prussia shrugged. "Well. Hm. Not a bad idea. Considering you're also at home, I've got all the entertainment I need, anyway," Prussia said, ruffling his brother's hair. He rested his head against Germany's shoulder, shut his eyes, and hummed happily. Germany laughed lightly and wound an arm around his brother.

He looked outside. The rain continued to pour; the wind was hammering and rattling the windows relentlessly; and lightning tore the sky.

"Long live, my brother," Germany said, grinning. Prussia grinned back.

"Long live," Prussia said softly.

A storm was raging outside.

Nowhere else to go but home, in the company of each other.

"'Course, it'd still be _pretty damn wonderful_ to have one of those aforementioned hot chicks over. What do you say, eh?"

* * *

**Author's note **Once again, I am terribly sorry for having effed some major scheisse up.


End file.
